


you wear my soul

by zenosungs (pastelkoma)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Bokuto Koutarou-centric, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, akaashi rly loves him, no one actually dies tho, tw for mentions of death, tw for panic attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:48:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25628500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pastelkoma/pseuds/zenosungs
Summary: Holy shit, he’s not breathing good enough and now he’s going todie.He’s going to die on the phone with Akaashi and his last words are about the color purple and how Akaashi is probably the prettiest thing in his life, which is so stupid but also terrifying because he needs better last words than that.(OR: Bokuto calls Akaashi up at 3 a.m. because he's panicking on his bedroom floor, and Akaashi is sweetly gentle with him as he always tends to be.)
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Comments: 9
Kudos: 160





	you wear my soul

**Author's Note:**

> made this in one sitting and now it's 5 a.m. :,)) vent fic
> 
> check the tags for the trigger warnings!!
> 
> i love you so much, enjoy

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He doesn’t remember calling Akaashi, but here Bokuto is, in his too-big sweater in his too-hot room sitting against his too-hard bed, cold phone pressing against his ear and almost shaking out of his fingers.

It’s some ungodly hour in the morning, but Akaashi picks up anyway. That never changes.

“Bokuto-san.”

Akaashi, as always, has soft words, ones that are slightly rough against the edges but still tender in his own Akaashi way, even with too-rough-against-the-edges words. It’s familiar, and it makes Bokuto almost cry because it’s also like 3 a.m. and he’s sitting in front of his bed and not _on_ his bed and his stomach is hurting and he thinks he’s forgetting how to breathe.

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi repeats and his voice has turned from soft to pretty (is there a difference?) and Bokuto swallows thickly, because he hadn’t answered to the first calling of his name. Maybe he was too focused on not crying, which makes him want to cry even more. “Bokuto-san. Color, please.”

 _Color_ —red, orange, yellow, green, blue—that’s just almost the whole rainbow, what is Akaashi talking about? 

“Remember the color system, Bokuto? Please give me a color. On how you’re feeling.”

 _Color_. Color system. The words ring vaguely in his mind but everything is still a mess in his brain, so what does Akaashi mean? He doesn’t remember. Does he have to remember? Having to remember seems like too much work. Everything seems like too much work. Breathing is definitely, definitely, definitely too much work right now.

“Purple?” Bokuto blurts, voice sandpaper, heart aching. He still can’t remember what Akaashi is talking about, but purple is a pretty color and Akaashi is a really pretty boy so it seems pretty fitting. He almost, _almost_ laughs, but then he does end up remembering that he’s having trouble breathing, so he doesn’t. “B-Because. Purple.”

“Bokuto-san, purple isn’t in the system,” Akaashi says in reply. It makes Bokuto swallow thickly again, saliva forcing its way down a sandpaper throat where his sandpaper voice is stuck. “But purple, if that’s how you’re feeling. Why purple?”

 _You sound like a therapist, Akaashi,_ he almost giggles, but for some reason, the sandpaper words still don’t come out of his sandpaper throat. He settles for the reply that does manage to leave his lips, which are bitten and bleeding at this point. “Because purple is pretty. The pastel. Purple, I mean. Sunset purple? Yeah, that’s right! Purple is a pretty color and you’re also pretty, haha, isn’t that a funny coincidence? A-And like I said, it’s a pretty color and you’re also really pretty Akaashi and oh gosh Akaashi I think I’m going to throw up—”

“Bokuto-san, your breathing,” Akaashi says, voice turning from soft to the concerned type of soft, probably because Bokuto won’t stop rambling about the color purple. “It’s getting too fast, alright? Can you hear me well?”

Bokuto swallows again, he _swears_ he can feel bile rushing up his throat, “Yeah.”

“Then can you please try to match my breathing?” 

_Breathing. Breathing. Breathing_. That’s what Bokuto is having trouble with, isn’t it? Oh—his fingers twitch as he gradually takes notice of the heaving rise and fall of his own chest, and his lungs are forgetting to work, holy shit. Holy shit, he’s not breathing good enough and now he’s going to _die._ He’s going to die on the phone with Akaashi and his last words are about the color purple and how Akaashi is probably the prettiest thing in his life, which is so stupid but also terrifying because he needs better last words than that. Akaashi is going to be the last person he talks to so he should probably say something like “Akaashi, you’re so beautiful and I love you” before he _does_ die. Oh, shit, he has to say that right now—

The words, because he still has a dumb sandpaper throat, don’t come out. All Bokuto can manage is a strangled wheeze into the phone, which is slick against his sweaty hands. 

“Oh, goodness. Bokuto. _Koutarou_. Listen to me, please? Focus on my voice, Koutarou, you’re okay.” 

_No, I’m not,_ Bokuto wants to retort. _Okay_ is the earth and he’s all the way on Neptune. 

“Well. You’re not okay, but you will be,” Akaashi says. That’s a bit better.

But Bokuto is still forgetting how to breathe. This much is evident as soft wheezes come out instead of big breaths, oh _fuck_ he really is dying. He has to say his last words now before he stops breathing entirely and flops to the floor like a fish. What were his planned last words again? Something about how he loves Akaashi? “A-Akaashi—” that’s all he can manage before he gasps for air, his other hand coming to clutch the phone, which is dangerously wavering in his trembling hands. 

“I’m here, Bokuto. Always here. I’ll be here forever and ever for as long as you need me. I’m going to come over right now, okay? I’m coming.”

There’s rustling on Akaashi’s end of the line and then Bokuto’s heart leaps into his sandpaper throat without warning, shaky hands suddenly gripping the phone so tightly it feels like it’s going to break, “ _No!_ Don’t hang up! Akaashi, _Akaashi,_ don’t—”

(His sandpaper throat gets the best of him, as always.)

“I’m not,” Akaashi is quick to say, _soothinggentlesoothing_ , shades of sunset purple and too-rough-around-the-edges words; it’s not enough right now, though. But Akaashi is trying. “I’m not going to hang up, I promise, okay? But I’m going to breathe really deeply, so can you try to follow along the best you can?”

This is _Akaashi_ and Akaashi is the bestest person in Bokuto’s life, so he listens, because with Akaashi he always does. Only mustering up a soft hum of affirmation, Bokuto leans his head back, hands fumbling with the phone as his chest continues to do its fast heaving.

Akaashi breathes in a familiar rhythm. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight.

Bokuto is trying, he really is, but he _can’t._ This is a panic attack, isn’t it? It’s been a while since he got one of those, but this one is fucking terrible, and usually by now he would be able to breathe, but this time he _can’t_. That’s, what? The second warning sign? The first was his sandpaper throat. He was right—he’s going to die. He didn’t even get to tell Akaashi his last words all because his stupid lungs _can’t let him breathe._

_He’s your boyfriend, so he already knows you love him, why are you going to say such lame last words?_

_Shut up!_ Bokuto screams back at the little nagging voice in his head (even though the voice is right; he shouldn’t have such lame last words). “Akaa—” he tries again, but even that’s too much for his poor scrawny lungs, which feel like they’re folding in on themselves. Shit. He probably has, like, thirty seconds before he completely and fully dies. But the next time he opens his mouth, no words come out. 

“Shit,” he faintly hears Akaashi curse softly. His gentle voice is starting to sound like it’s underwater. This is probably the first step to his death, Bokuto recognizes. First his ears will feel like they’re filled with cotton, then he’ll lose control of his limbs, and he’ll take a shuddery last breath before he inevitably dies. Why did it have to be this lame way, out of every way to a possible death?

And why did Akaashi swear? Bokuto knows that he isn’t doing a good job on breathing, so is Akaashi frustrated with him? Oh, shit, the last feeling Akaashi will feel before Bokuto dies is frustration. This is a _horrible_ way to die.

“I don’t wanna—” Bokuto swallows, the words slipping through the gaps in his ragged breathing, “Don’t wanna die, _shit,_ Akaashi—”

“What? No. No, of course not, Bokuto-san. You’re not going to die. You’re alive, you’re just panicking, but you’re not going to die, understand?”

“No,” Bokuto manages to choke out, because he doesn’t understand.

Akaashi curses again, a little louder this time, and Bokuto breathes a little less. “I’m almost there. Almost there, Bokuto.”

He really, really can’t breathe. Maybe Akaashi said he wouldn’t die, but it sure damn feels like he’s about to. The room is too dark and his once-baggy sweater feels like it’s strangling him in the tightest way possible, which is funny, because he’s wearing Akaashi’s sweater, the one that the dark-haired boy got for Bokuto because he knows Bokuto likes baggy clothing. If he were to maybe die even though Akaashi said otherwise, he would die in Akaashi’s sweater. That makes things a bit more bearable.

_Colors. Purple. Sky. Purple sky._

A purple sky seems pretty, and Bokuto prefers that over this dark bedroom. He vaguely remembers stumbling into the wall when he tried to hit the light switch, but by then he was already starting to panic, so he failed miserably. 

“Bokuto-san, I’m here. I’m coming inside now.”

 _How are you getting in?!_ Bokuto almost asks, before recalling that Akaashi has a key to his place, and that Bokuto has a key to Akaashi’s. That’s reassuring. That he can go to Akaashi’s place uninvited, though Akaashi will welcome him warmly anyway, because Akaashi is always warm and welcoming.

Bokuto lets his phone slip out of his grip (it was too much of a nuisance to hold to his ear anyway) so he can freely claw his fingers into the fabric of the sweater that hugs his chest loosely yet is choking him so tightly. He can’t breathe. Akaashi is coming but Bokuto still can’t _breathe_. Even thinking of the color purple now doesn’t seem like much of a help, and even though Akaashi told him he wouldn’t die, how can Akaashi be so damn _sure?_

Maybe Akaashi lied. Maybe he’s just telling Bokuto that because Bokuto is panicking and the awareness of his oncoming death would make him panic even more. Bokuto can’t even remember why he started to panic in the first place, or why he’s curled up on the floor against his bed when he could be on his bed, or why the room is still so damn dark, or why he still has a sandpaper throat, or why his lungs are not functioning as lungs, or why—

“Koutarou.”

The familiar voice is soft and tinted purple.

Through a blurry sheen of tears, Bokuto can faintly make out the sharp features on Akaashi’s gentle face, though the other is kind of like a materializing blob in his eyes. But there’s no mistaking the flood of relief that manages to flow through his chest cavity, freeing his thundering heart a tad more.

“Hey. I’m here,” Akaashi says, so pretty and graceful and soft. “Can I touch you?”

Bokuto nods a little bit with a small wheeze, craving anything, craving touch. Craving _Akaashi’s_ touch.

One of Akaashi’s hands comes up to cup Bokuto’s cheek, his palm pressing against flushed skin, a touch that makes Bokuto’s face scrunch up with a slight sob. Akaashi is here. _Akaashi is here._

“Oh—hey, don’t do that,” Akaashi whispers, thumb gliding against Bokuto’s cheek to thumb away the gathering tears. “Don’t do that. You’re okay.”

Life, however, is not a movie, where a character is suddenly cured by their lover’s touch. Bokuto wishes, but that isn’t how it works. So Akaashi’s hands, as gentle as they are with him, do not suddenly make his panic attack cease to exist. If anything, now that Bokuto is crying, everything seems to crumble a little bit more.

He can’t help it—he gags softly from the lack of air and how dizzying everything is, lungs constricting and stomach doing flips. 

Akaashi curses for the third time that night, a whisper under his breath. “Bokuto-san,” he says, before a hand is wrapped around Bokuto’s wrist in a touch so dazedly gentle. Akaashi’s hand guides Bokuto’s own to Akaashi’s chest, letting his palm press against the steady rise and fall. “Feel my heart? Feel how I’m breathing? Can you try to match that?”

Bokuto shrugs—Akaashi is still blurry, but his chest under his palm feels solid. Grounding. He could at least try. 

So he does try. He’s bad at it and it’s like Akaashi is expecting him to be, but he’s patient. Akaashi is always patient with Bokuto, even when Bokuto is annoying or loud or everything in between. Even now, when Bokuto is struggling for breath, Akaashi never falters or snaps or gets mad. Bokuto makes a mental note to show his gratitude for this when he can.

For now, though, he tries to match the rhythm of Akaashi’s breathing, which is scarily steady. Bokuto is still failing but he’s making progress, and he thinks that maybe he won’t die after all.

“You’re getting there,” Akaashi says, his hands shifting—the one cupping Bokuto’s cheek moves a little, and the one holding Bokuto’s wrist twitches. Akaashi still doesn’t falter, though surely his arms are aching by now. “You’re doing great, Bokuto. You’re doing so well.”

Akaashi sounds very confident with his words, so if he says that Bokuto is doing well, then he is. 

That’s enough. That’s more than enough.

After what feels like an eternity (maybe it has been), Bokuto stops failing and he starts to feel the thread unwinding around his lungs. It takes a long stretch of time—he had been sobbing and gasping for breath earlier, but with Akaashi’s breathing lulling him softly, it’s easier. Not easy enough, but easier. _That’s okay,_ Akaashi’s eyes tell him, because somewhere along the way Bokuto’s vision had stopped blurring. _That’s okay._

“Is your head clearer now? Can you give me a color?” Akaashi asks again.

 _Color_. Color… Color system. Green, orange, yellow, red. Color system to tell Akaashi how he feels when he can’t put it into words. He remembers now.

“R...Red,” Bokuto croaks out. Everything feels red. Everything still feels very, very red.

“Alright,” Akaashi says, his thumb starting to make gentle circles into Bokuto’s wrist. “That’s fine. You’re fine, you see? Look at you, you’re breathing better now.”

 _Huh. I am_. Bokuto manages a weak smile, one that Akaashi returns. It’s still 3 in the morning but Akaashi is here with him even though he didn’t have to come. Bokuto never thought that he’d feel so loved, but here he is, still wheezing softly albeit less now, with Akaashi’s hands against his own clammy skin in Bokuto’s too-dark room.

Akaashi is all kinds of shades of purple, the pretty kinds. He squeezes Bokuto’s wrist softly, before he tilts forward to press his lips against Bokuto’s face, right next to his left eye. Then he plants another soft kiss against Bokuto’s forehead, even though he’s definitely sweating there, though Akaashi doesn’t mind at all.

“Are you alright, Koutarou?”

Bokuto swallows thickly. He doesn’t have a sandpaper throat anymore, though it still feels a bit rough. “I think.”

Bokuto is still having a bit of trouble with his breathing; then Akaashi tugs him into a hug, long arms wrapping around Bokuto so securely that he’s sure he’s about to start crying again. Instead of crying he just breathes—he inhales that familiar scent that only belongs to Akaashi, and for some reason he smells like periwinkle, which is probably the prettiest shade of purple-blue that Bokuto knows. He’ll take it. He likes how Akaashi smells like periwinkle. It’s calming.

“Color?”

“Yellow,” Bokuto says, voice muffled from where he’s pressed against Akaashi’s shoulder. The dark-haired man’s long fingers start to thread through Bokuto’s hair, which is now down because he had showered earlier, spikes no longer present. “Yellow,” he says again, louder this time, in case Akaashi hadn’t heard him. Bokuto is a loud person by nature, but crying and sandpaper throats tend to tear your voice apart sometimes.

“Got that,” Akaashi says, turning his head so he can speak into Bokuto’s hair. It’s reassuring, in the best ways possible.

And so there they sit, on the floor (since Bokuto was stupid enough to not go on his bed in the first place), in a too-dark room, Akaashi cradling his taller boyfriend, both of them breathing each other in. Bokuto loves him, and he can tell him that without those being his last words. He didn’t die, he’s okay, and he remembers the color system and how it helps in times like these. He’s in Akaashi’s arms—Akaashi, who still smells like periwinkle—and his ragged breathing is improving bit by bit.

“You scared me,” Akaashi says, shattering the silence. “When I answered the call. Thought something really, really bad happened to you.”

“Sorry, ‘Kaashi.”

“No, I’m just glad that you’re alright,” Akaashi says, voice honest, voice soft, in his very own Akaashi way. “Thank you for calling me. Was it anything in particular that triggered this one?”

Bokuto thinks back. “Well. Everything about today was just a bit too rough for me, y’know? Then there was a mouse in my kitchen which scared me, and then the hallways were dark, and everything just piled and piled until I exploded, like _kaboom!_ You know?”

“...Sure.”

“But I have you now and I’m feeling a lot better. Orange.”

Akaashi hums. Orange is one step closer to green, and when Bokuto reaches green they can both rest easy. Green is not one of Bokuto’s favorite colors, not like how purple is, but it’s a color that means he is okay. Akaashi will wait until Bokuto reaches green; he knows that. Akaashi is many things, like how he’s patient, and so he always waits.

Bokuto sighs softly, pushing his face into the crook of Akaashi’s neck—the other boy starts to gently rub large circles into Bokuto’s back, fingers pushing against tense muscles. Bokuto breathes. He couldn’t before, but he can now.

So he breathes. Akaashi, like always, doesn’t falter.

“...M’sleepy,” Bokuto says.

“Well, I’m not going to carry you to bed if you fall asleep here. You’re going to have to do that on your own, you know.”

“ _Akaashi!_ ”

Akaashi laughs then, a soft rumble in his chest, one that Bokuto feels from where their bodies are pressed against each other. Bokuto flushes red, but the good kind this time, not the scary not-okay type of red. This red adorns his cheeks and spreads to the tips of his ears, because he really does love Akaashi, at this early morning hour on a hard floor in a dark room.

“...Akaashi, is ‘I love you so much’ too lame for last words?”

“Bokuto-san. What.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> kudos + comments always appreciated!
> 
> this was my first haikyuu fic ahaha lmk if you want to see more of them from me!


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